


monochrome

by sushimilk



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, captain america: civil war - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 05:47:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7156052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sushimilk/pseuds/sushimilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steven Grant Rogers has always been a man of gut instinct and of law. He's always viewed things from two perspectives and always classified things to be either black or white. Things were never gray, but with Bucky Barnes, they always were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	monochrome

**Things were always black and white.**

Steve Rogers once considered himself to be a man of steadfast morality. He always knew what to do, and why he needed to do it. A staunch patriot, he was one who did what’s right-- _what’s needed to be done_ , as his wrists bled red, white, and blue. He knew what he wanted -- what he needed -- and was always the first to compartmentalize his emotions. Their needs over his, their desires over his. He makes sure he is the first to fight and the last to leave. He is always the one who cries privately, creating a face of bravery for those who cower in fear. A man of gut instinct and of law, he’s been one who everyone knew would stick to the rules, and would remain selfless no matter what. 

**Things were never gray.**

So far in his life, Steve never had much problem picking and choosing between options. There was usually one which fitted his ideal thinking. What type of clothes he wore, the type of coffee he drank, down to the way he **fought**. They were always clear, concise, and Steve liked it that way, especially now. It’s what worked. It’s what helped him sleep at night: knowing that he had order back in his life and he no longer feels chaos rumbling in his mind and ravaging his thoughts. Undeniably, there were things he wished changed or didn’t exist, but he knew how to adapt. It was all black and white. He knew what to do. He always had the answers. 

He always knew, until he heard his name. It hit his chest like a frozen fist, and he tried to conceal his surprise by allowing his eyes to open by a fraction of an inch. How long has it been since he’s heard his name said by a mouth that wasn’t his own? Something flooded within his chest and he didn’t quite know what it was. Flashes of snow and an ear piercing scream of his name is all he hears and sees-- all he knows. 

_I could have saved him. I could have protected him. I have sacrificed my body and soul to my country, allowed them to use me as a tool for my homeland’s safety-- to save those who I care for. I had the ability, I had the strength. But I lacked time, luck even. Now the man I truly cherish, the one who protected me, the one who I craved to protect, has been transformed into something that even the Devil himself envies. **It’s all my fault.**_

Thoughts scared him like a spectre does child. Everything seemed too bright, too loud; guilt anchored itself in his chest, shame and well-hidden anger sinking itself to his shoulders, his body burning in response. All those years spent compartmentalizing fear, rage, self-loathing, and regret were breaking free and drowning him alive. He hates how poorly he reacts to his name, how easily he follows him, and he despises how easy it was to make a choice that once would have gone against every fibre of his being. The rules didn’t apply to him. They never did, and never will. Not to Steve. 

_Bucky is not a murderer. **Not my Bucky.** I knew him, I still do. He wouldn’t kill under the orders of Hydra-- not them. James Buchanan Barnes is not a bully, and I know he never will be._

He hates how people talk of him with hatred in their mouth, rage in their eyes. He balls his fists and tries not to visibly shudder and lash at those who blame his actions on Bucky and not on the other man. The other person they shoved in Bucky’s mind-- **two heads sharing a single soul** , and Steve despised how everyone believed that they were the same. Steve knew they weren’t, yet his attempts of clearing Bucky’s name never quite worked until now. They speak of him as if he were lower than dirt, and Steve despised the way they did so. He noticed Natasha was the only one who spoke of him in a manner that was not unkind. He didn’t understand why that was, but he refused to question it. 

He recalls a time where he felt particularly aggravated and lonely, knowing that the people he worked with-- people he considered as friends-- are now in pursuit to capture Bucky, the man he considered, and still considers, to be his home. He feels a hand, soft and small touch the back of his arm and he turns towards it. It’s Natasha, auburn locks cascading gracefully to cover the sides of her face. She was looking up at him, wordless and her gaze almost apologetic. So far, she’s been the only one who seemed to agree with Steve, the only one who seemed to be kind and understanding whenever she finds him talking about Bucky. Meanwhile, Steve’s always been confused by her actions but was thankful nonetheless, believing that she must have been in a similar situation before they even met.

Bucky was the murderer without a soul, a classic bully, and whatever negative term that came to mind was what people used to describe him. He killed men and women without remorse and barely leaves any tracks to follow, reports say. Steve hated looking at his files knowing full well that Bucky was someone who never wanted wanted to fight men lest it be for a good cause. He never seeked it and he never threw the first punch. Steve knew. He was there every time he needed protection, thus it hurts him every single time he sees Bucky described as a rabid pet of Death. He knew how Bucky was, (he was acting out of orders, and **not** out of his own volition) while they didn’t. Yet, he couldn’t help but forgive them for blaming Bucky, antagonizing him, because he understood their views. It burns Steve to think of his friend-- _his home_ \--to be some kind of villain, but he can’t help but understand and empathize with the people’s grief, anger, and resentment towards his cherished person. Steve sighs each time, guilt settling in his gut, often leaving him feeling conflicted and in well-masked despair.

 

He kept quiet for the most part, allowing them to talk about Bucky as if he were a monster. Steve wanted to yell, to defend, to cry, to scream, and scold them for not knowing any better. But he doesn’t. He’s afraid, but doesn’t know it. Afraid that if he spoke, he wouldn’t stop. Afraid that if he spoke, words would evolve into actions that sadly, would oppose the decisions of the rest of his team. Actions that for once, felt right to do. 

He opens his mouth to speak. 

*** 

The room is empty, litter and rusting scrap metal equipment scattered throughout the area. Steve is staring at the sky, peaceful and quiet in appearance. He thinks it’s amusing to know that some things remain the same, refusing to allow time to destroy their beauty. His arms are crossed, features shadowed by the light, making him look a fraction closer to his actual age. The feelings of fatigue, despair, and frustration loom over his shoulders like a heavy cloud. He loses himself in thought, temporarily unaware and uncaring about world around him. It was only when he hears Sam call him that he turns around, mind within his body once more. 

The room smelled like motor oil and rust, Steve looking at the man in red, hunched over and obviously in pain. He had grease covering the bruises blooming like spilled ink on parchment, dirt covering his nape and soiling his clothes. They look at each other, and Steve swears it was possibly one of the worst sights he has ever seen. His heart aches and his body follows suit, bringing him phantom pains that he had to mentally brush off. 

“Bucky, do you remember me?” 

He’s sure as hell that he knew who he was, but anxiety flooded him neck deep, chest constricting out of the fear of being forgotten. He couldn’t lose Bucky. Not him. 

“Your mom’s name was Sarah… You used to wear newspaper in your shoes. You were the first to call me Bucky when everyone else just called me James.” 

Steve feels his heart skip beats, and is transported to the days where he was thin and fragile, where Bucky was clean and beautiful-- young and carefree. He’s briefly reminded of the days where they held hands, Bucky’s fingers intertwining with his, squeezing his palm so surely, where Steve couldn’t help but follow. He was always taken care of, hands always bandaged, blood always wiped, and lips always kissed-- no matter how swollen they are. They were both awkward, hormonal teenagers who were both looking towards the light of the future, burning clear and bright. Steve always wondered how they would be if the war hadn’t devoured them whole. 

He ignores Sam’s remarks towards their reunion and begins to talk about things more seriously. Eventually, Sam leaves the two alone, well aware that they needed time together without anyone else hearing. Steve thanks him in a form of a nod, and sits in front of the already freed Bucky, who’s watching his metal recalibrate, the soft _click click_ reminding Steve of an old clock he once owned. 

“I don’t know why you’re doing this. It won’t change anyone’s mind.” 

His voice was quiet, and if Steve weren’t listening so closely, it would have missed his ears completely. He stares at Bucky, whose gaze is focused on a spare piece of metal on the ground. Steve knits his brows and tilts his head. Surely Bucky knows how much he meant to him, right? Does he not remember the days, the nights, spent together in their bedrooms? Hands wandering curiously, exploring their bodies and minds, mouths whispering promises and odes of adoration towards one another through kisses and tight embraces? They held secrets with their bodies and professed their love for one another through discreet actions-- Steve vividly remembering the way Bucky gazed down upon him and kissed him on the corner of his lips, telling him that he would return to him, alive and well. _Just for him._

“You deserve a second chance.” 

“I think I’ve run out of chances, Rogers.” 

Steve stares at him, pain apparent in his eyes. 

“You were never given one in the first place, Bucky.” 

Bucky doesn’t reply and Steve sighs, instead watching him flex his metal hand, bending each finger to see if it were in working condition. Steve wondered if it hurt, if Bucky was conscious when they removed his arm-- if there was any remnant of flesh and bone, or if the fall created a cut clean enough for them to easily replace with his current arm. The thoughts scared him, knowing that Bucky was experiencing things he didn’t deserve. He wondered if Bucky screamed for help, screamed for someone to rescue him, if he screamed for Steve to save him. There were many things Steve wanted to ask, wanted to say, wanted to apologize for, but he couldn’t find the courage to do so. Thus, he goes for the next best thing on his mind’s list. 

“I missed you, Bucky. Things weren’t the same without you. Believe me. I wish you were there when I first discovered mobile phones.” 

He laughs lamely, and his poor attempt of it was almost immediately washed off by a frown. They sit in heavy silence, and it burns Steve’s ears just listening. He yearns for a reply from the other, patiently waiting for him to say something, anything, even if it’s something Steve didn’t want to hear. 

“I remember you.” 

The words were a little louder now, but it was the last thing Steve expected. 

“Well… I’m glad-- I remember you too.” 

God does he remember him, the way the skin in the corner of his eyes crinkle whenever he laughs, the way his dimples deepen when he grins, the way crimson dusts his cheeks whenever he blushes (no one else can notice, but Steve knows), the way his letters lean a tad bit to the left whenever he writes, the way his mouth feels against his skin. The way his tongue moves against his own is something that makes Steve melt almost immediately, the way his hands crawl up his sides before firmly planting themselves against his skinny waist as they hold each other close, fucking quietly as they remained each other's secret. Bucky could have broken him, could've destroy him, abandoned him, and find someone new, someone better-- but he stayed. He stays and peppers his body with kisses, and during those moments where Steve could stay within Bucky’s arms, lust and admiration swallowing them whole, their throats emitting nothing but whimpers and moans, does Steve thank that he’s small. 

“No, I mean. It’s scary. My memories-- everything I’m beginning to remember, all of them stem to one main thing. You’re the common denominator, and I…” 

He trails off, now looking at Steve with desperation in his eyes. Steve doesn’t know how to reply, so he just sits there, across him, gripping his own hands until his knuckles turned white. He’s happy to know that Bucky remembered him, but he wanted him to know more. He wanted him to remember the Bucky before the war, the things he loved and hated-- Steve hated himself again, hated knowing that he could have prevented this, he could have told him to stay, told him that he shouldn’t be with him, go to a safer place where death was less likely to touch him (Steve is pleased to know that Bucky is alive and well in front of him, but he knows that _Bucky was subjected to a type of death that required him to breathe_.) 

“Steve,” 

Bucky croaks, and he sounded so fragile. Steve snaps his head up and looks at him, not noticing that he was staring at the ground. The man was looking at him and suddenly he felt like a sixteen year old boy in love. He knew that gaze even if Bucky himself didn’t: hungry, raw, and afraid. Something pulls in Steve’s stomach, nearly yanking him, and he finds himself looking at Bucky’s lips. It took two seconds for Steve to throw caution to the wind and plant his lips against Bucky’s. 

Tears burn behind his eyes, as he feels an arm hook around his neck, Bucky kissing back as intently, his chapped lips scratching against Steve’s tongue. He tastes like blood and smelled like grease, sweat, and musk. It nearly drove Steve to gleeful hysteria, making sure to wrap his arms as best as he could around the other man’s body. How long has he dreamt of this moment? To hold him closely, feel his pulse beat rapidly against his chest like a code that Steve would have to decipher. His touch electrifying, it was pleasing to know that Bucky kisses just the same. They kissed like teenagers in love, teenagers whose parents were too strict, teenagers who haven’t seen each other in weeks and after this, never will. It felt so terrifyingly familiar that Steve ignored the fact that they were both covered in grime and were twice as big. 

With what seemed like centuries, they finally broke apart, lips merely centimeters apart. Both of their eyes were closed, sight being an unnecessary thing as of now. They were panting, happy, and Steve could only pray for Bucky to remain to remember this moment for as long as he physically can. 

“Bucky…” 

Bucky finally opens his eyes and kisses the corner of Steve’s lips. 

“Yeah?” 

“I… I love you. I always have, and I always will. No matter who you are, no matter what you do…” A chuckle. “Because I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.” 

There was a brief pause before Steve hears Bucky’s reply. 

“I.. I am too.” 

**Things were not black and white. With Bucky, it never was.**

**Author's Note:**

> this was a fic i made inspired from a video i saw of chris evans saying that cap was always organized w/ his thoughts?? like he always sees things clearly and always sticks by the rules but with bucky everything changes because bucky is more important than rules lmao 
> 
> its kinda short but i hope u like it!!
> 
> thank u @catharcic for editing
> 
> hmu @ghostly_png on twitter


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